Before I knew the soul of the sea I knew rivers. The gentle cadence of water meandering through a landscape – its sounds, scents and patterns. This river is small, flowing gently against grassy banks and low-lying brush. Its water is deep amber, clear enough to spot rocks that redirect and perturb it slightly, creating ripples. Weeds sway lazily in the irregular currents.

I spent my time getting to know rivers long before I started sailing. Rivers have always held a certain wonder and mystery to me. The way they shift and change from rushing white water, tumbling over rocks, to calm, mirror-polished, inscrutable ponds. The way they dart and flit across the landscape, sometimes dividing, before the streams re-join in a rushing joy. There is a promise to a river. I look at it and it seems to hold its secrets close, but somewhere deep within there is magic. Its dark pools and twists and turns are tantalising, and all my life I have wanted to learn what hides beneath the surface.

It’s a curiosity of nature and all that it holds. Like spotting the brilliant colours of a kingfisher flying past, my curiosity is piqued when there is a small movement in the stream, a rising brown trout breaking the surface. Concentric rings ripple out from where it must have eaten some insect. It sparkles for a brief moment as the sun reflects off its scales. One of the river’s secrets.

And like spotting a kingfisher and wanting to grab the binoculars to see it up close, I’m drawn to the trout. I want to see it again and perhaps then better understand this hidden world that contains such wonders, and connect with the animal soul that belongs to this stream.

Trout are beautiful jewels, scales glimmering gold with ruby spots, and they hold infinite curiosity to me. As I see it rising, I remember all that I have learnt over the years about rivers and the lives they support. I have learnt to see how the current shifts around bends and speeds up; how it’s pushed up and sideways by rocks and branches; and how deep hollows take the speed out of it. I’ve learnt where the trout likes to be, to save energy, stay protected and find food. I have learnt how the temperature shifts and gives life to mayflies and other insects. Their life cycles are as important to the trout and the river as the rocks and the twists and turns themselves. The way the larvae move and feed as nymphs; the temperature at which they molt and rise to the surface to hatch. And then how they begin their brief adult life after being given wings, one glorious day aloft in the sun, only to die shortly after, their life cycles complete.

I sit by the river and watch the place where the trout rose. I spot the mayflies drifting on the surface. Another one approaches the rock behind which the trout is hiding, and it too becomes a quick snack, as the smallest little plop makes it disappear into the trout’s mouth.

My curiosity eventually gets the better of me and I sneak up to the edge of the water and tie on a perfect mayfly imitation to my fly line. An insect made of string and feathers. I must hold all that I know of the river and its treasures in my mind before I cast my line out. I cast my mind out to the rocks, the currents below the surface, the insects in the water, and where I imagine the trout is hiding. I sense the movement and the energy of it all, the spirit of the river.

And if I’ve understood enough of it, then maybe the trout will rise. I let my imitation of nature drift along the stream. It sits on the surface like all the real mayflies around it, almost indistinguishable, drifting in the currents towards the partially hidden stone. The fly follows the twists and turns I have observed before casting it out; it’s pulled one way and then the other before gliding past the rock. And then the trout rises. The river has given me one of its treasured jewels to hold and observe for a short moment.

It’s the manifestation of my connection with the soul of the river.

It’s a thing of beauty and wonder. But it can only ever be fleeting because the act in itself hurts the world in its disturbance. It takes a toll on me and the trout. Flyfishing is a strange conflict within. To get to know the river and the trout, you know you are hurting it. But it is done out of curiosity; out of wanting connection and of loving the trout and the river it is in. It always feels wrong and a little selfish, but it also provides this deep and immense connection to the world that feels important.

So as the trout swims back, I breathe out again, the tension released. The trout glitters a final time before disappearing into the amber stream, perfectly blending back in against the pebbled river bed. It’s absorbed by the river, hidden in its embrace. Soon after, I spot it rising again, eating real mayflies. Not too rattled.

I say a quiet thank you to the river and the trout. And then I turn around and walk home as the sun drops lower in the sky, but never quite sets.

Thanks for reading this essay. Flyfishing has always been a way for me to connect with the natural world, but there has also always been a conflict in the fact that there is some harm to the fish. I know it can be controversial so I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments: have you ever tried it? What do you think about it?

Two big inspirations for this essay are the books Illuminated by Water by Malachy Tallack, and of course the timeless A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean. Check them out if you are interested in more soulful nature writing on rivers and flyfishing.

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After dinner I row ashore and stroll up along the shortest river in the UK, connecting fresh water Loch Coruisk — high above the anchorage — to the sea. I walk along in the half light of dusk, surrounded by steep rocks that fade into the distance, enshrouded by a light, misting rain. There are scattered boulders perched on top of rocks and hills everywhere, and some of the smooth, exposed rock I walk on is scored by deep gouges, the visible effects of the ice sheet that moved over these places millennia ago.

The veil between us and history feels thin here somehow. These rocks and isles have stood here longer than all human lifetimes. I sit for a moment and take it all in.

I’m thinking about time, place, colour and light, shifting my attention trying to perceive my surroundings. I notice the muted colours of this vista, a defining feature of these Scottish island landscapes. They have a wildness to them, seeming almost inhospitable.

There is a spectrum of greys in the rock faces and the smooth flowing ice-carved cliffs. Some lichens grow sparsely, reddish white, others pale yellow or ivory white. The grasses are green but not vibrant, dulled by beige and straw. Tiny purple flowers occasionally burst out of the heather.

The towering rocks of the Cuillins seem dark, brooding, almost black. But the constant mists wet the rocks, and when they catch the light they shine and sparkle, silver bright. The sea goes from a blue-green lagoon to obsidian black where the reflection of light and rock makes the surface opaque. The Scottish isles are uniquely beautiful. It is such a privilege to be able to sail here, and to see both the richness and scarcity of life.

As I sit overlooking the sea, with Loch Coruisk behind me and the ancient rocks and cliffs all around, I see the traces of time etched across the landscape. The rock I sit on is smoothed by the ice, lines etched deep by its movement, twenty thousand years ago. Grasses and plants, flowers, lichen and algae are scattered irregularly. The movements of time and water visible everywhere.

The sea shifts and changes as the tide moves in, driven by the sun and the moon and the Earth’s rotation in a solar system 4.6 billion years old. Flowing clouds shroud and change the landscape; the peaks seem to live in the heavens, always covered from view.

I think about the movement of water: the droplets in the clouds that cover these peaks, dripping down, eroding, collecting, until it flows down to the loch, and eventually the sea where it again evaporates and returns to cloud in a continuous cycle, seemingly eternal. But it will erode the rocks to nothing over time, and the minerals of those rocks wash out to sea and become part of algae, fish and us — sustaining life.

We are all part of Earth and it is also in us; all matter part of our one planet. Billions of years of evolution — based on those minerals and compounds — shaped all of us.

How foolish it seems to believe we are separate or different or not part of nature.

We are of Earth. That’s all we can be.

This is a journal entry from my time sailing around the West Coast of Scotland, and part of chapter 15 of my memoir about the trip.

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My journey into sailing came out of nowhere. No one in my family expected it, least of all me. And in many ways I took quite an unusual path, but it’s also one that anyone can follow.

Life at sea is wondrous, and I wish everyone could get to experience it, the way I love and know it. The feeling as the sails fill with wind and the boat surges forward with an energy that feels alive is otherworldly. The freedom to explore places only accessible by water, the complete solitude at anchor among seals and birds can’t be replicated any other way. But sailing is also about being exposed to the elements, sometimes balancing fear and wonder as wind and seas build to enormous proportions, and somehow the boat harnesses those forces at sea, moulds itself to their power, and surfs the invisible air currents. The thrill and magic of it, along with the solitude and freedom makes you return to sea again and again to experience it.

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The call of the sea

Everyone has their own journey into sailing. Many start early, through family sailing trips or dinghy racing. Others find it independently out of curiosity as a way to achieve a sense of freedom, and exploration at sea. I fall into the latter. I didn’t really sail until quite late, starting in my late 20s. I wanted to sail, to experience life at sea immersed in the elements. In chapter one of my memoir I share the story of the first day I considered it:

One day, after watching a show about the age of sail, an idea came into my mind like a gust of wind, and it fanned into life a roaring fire from embers I didn’t know were aglow. From a simple thought – I wonder what sailing is like? – my life shifted onto a completely different track.

I went to sea for a weekend of cruising through my university sailing club and I fell in love. It was mid-March, charcoal skies and howling winds, throwing rain and sea spray in our faces as we were tossed by choppy waves in the Solent. We were somewhere between Southampton and the Isle of Wight on our way to the Needles. Despite myself – despite the cold, damp wintery grey – I fell in love with the feeling of flying over the sea with the wind, feeling the boat heave and move, punching through waves on this cold spring weekend.

It was a fluke really, a chance decision that got me into sailing. And then I took every chance I could get to do more of it, initially through the university club and then almost immediately I went on to learn through the RYA courses: day-skipper and yachtmaster.

Learning the ropes (the cheap way)

But what really taught me — and the only way to really learn — was simply time on the water. It was hard at first finding opportunities to crew, to get chances to sail more. It turns out not many people have access to sailing yachts. Or at least it’s hard when you don’t know where to go. Then it suddenly isn’t: you realise there are little boats and people who sail them everywhere, and most of them are happy to take you sailing.

For roughly the cost of a netflix subscription, anyone can join their local sailing or yacht club, where there are always opportunities to learn and get time on the water, by crewing for others as they sail.

So that’s what I did. A few years after that first day of sailing in the Solent, I joined my local club and started crewing. My very first sail with another club member was five days non-stop from Edinburgh to Gothenburg, crossing the North Sea. A tale for another post. I’m not suggesting everyone should do what I did — it’s worth starting small and building up to trans-sea-passages — but it’s worked out brilliantly for me.

I also started sailing with the organisation Sail Britain. Cruising the coasts of Scotland aboard Oliver’s ship Merlin has been one of the most amazing ways to experience sailing alongside like-minded people (who are also learning for the first time) and a way to make friends who sail.

Between the people I’ve met through Sail Britain and my local club, I have had the chance to do multiple crossings of the North Sea, cruise the west coast of Scotland, sail from Northern Ireland to Mallaig, and do a mid-winter passage of the Bay of Biscay, all as crew, completely free. I could never have expected all of this five years ago.

And then eventually I was given a boat for free.

How I found my boat Kismet

Then brave Kismet, northward bound we sailed!
Across great seas, through Scotland’s heart out west.
You carried us through lochs as deep as time,
To feel Atlantic spray upon the wind,

(lines from my recent ode to Kismet: A Wounded Bird)

Not long after I joined my local yacht club a boat was up for sale. But as it needed a lot of work and didn’t sell, I met with the owner and expressed my interest in restoring her. I didn’t have any experience as a boat owner, just a bit of sailing and a day skipper, but despite all of that he decided to give me his boat for free. I’ll be eternally grateful to him for changing the course of my life. And grateful to Kismet for carrying me all around Scotland.

I wrote about the experience of getting Kismet here:

Free boats are not a rare occurrence. Old, seaworthy boats needing work are often surprisingly hard to sell. So you’ll have to do the work. They’re free for a reason. But I can say from experience that it is worth it. After restoring Kismet and sailing around Scotland I’m now here, and it’s changed my life.

What you should do if you want to sail

So if you, like me, find yourself curious about sailing, yearning for freedom and nature, join a local sailing club. Sign up to crew, get out on the water, and maybe you too will find the joy and hardship of a free boat some day.

Organisations like Sail Britain offer an incredible alternative — allowing you to experience a week of coastal cruising alongside like-minded people. It is a space where a joint crew of experienced and novice sailors learn by doing and exploring remote Scottish isles and sea lochs together.

Additionally, there are dedicated crewing websites for bigger passages, where people crossing oceans look for helping hands. It’s a great way to build miles and get serious sailing experience.

If you are curious and would like to know more drop a comment down below, or message me.

I write weekly stories about my voyage: exploring life adrift, mental health, and recovering from burnout along the windswept shores of Scotland. To join the crew and support my writing please subscribe below.

And it’s inspired me to write a poem, a little ode to Kismet who carried us through it all.

When we were out sailing I kept thinking back to the epic imagery of Moby-Dick and Paradise Lost, especially as we navigated autumn storms around Cape Wrath, and the massive tides of the Pentland Firth. The themes of chaos and treacherous, vicious storms from those stories seemed appropriate as we sailed through some very rough, unforgiving seas.

I love these lines from Paradise Lost so much I included the quote in my book. It’s describing the voyage from Hell to earth across Chaos, with vivid seascape imagery.

If only we could all write like Milton… Alas.

But inspired by this, I’ve put together a poem for Kismet about our whole voyage. It’s written in blank verse in four stanzas. It’s inspired by the feel and imagery of the great epic blank verse poems like Ulysses, Paradise Lost, and The Odyssey.

A Wounded Bird

A broken boat with folded sails, alone
As winter frosts descend, abandoned here,
A gothic city’s yard of former glory.
Asleep on iron keels you yearned for seas
Remote in weary age, yet wanting more.
You dreamt to bound atop the waves again,
Beyond the Firth of Forth, and farther more.
You dreamt of distant shores and deep sea lochs, 
Among the rugged isles that guard the west.
But here ‘til now, your heart seized up, corroded.
Decayed, your courage lacking spark and verve.
A hull that’s dulled by years and miles gone by,
A wounded bird ashore, so far from life,
Away from lochs and isles and dolphin kin,
And far removed from dying dreams of yore. 

And then by kindred soul discovered here,
A sailor seeking Kismet and escape.
I wanted too what’s in your dreams, the wild
And sun-soaked west; to nestle in amongst
The ancient Cuillins looming over Skye,
And sail across the sea below the grace 
Of gulls and gannets gliding high above.
Our stories now aligned and intertwined,
As work began to build your heart and brain,
To give you courage and restore my soul,
Through winters chill we laboured long and hard.
And then came spring, with puffins swift return,
And warming sun as sails were raised again.

Then brave Kismet, northward bound we sailed! 
Across great seas, through Scotland’s heart out west.
You carried us through lochs as deep as time,
To feel Atlantic spray upon the wind, 
Then further still our journey went, past Mull 
And Skye with dolphins as our welcome guides.
Across the Scottish sea, new worlds emerged,
Far west as you can go. As autumn winds
Approached, again across a sea we sailed.
In Assynt ancient peaks stood watch alone,
Behind the pebbled shores in wispy clouds 
Enshrouded, there they pondered aeons past.

Then stormy Cape of Wrath and fear approached.
You brought us bravely forth again through gales,
And waves and roaring tides – bewinged souls,
Beneath the ancient skies by end of land.
Afloat through churning maelstroms, rushing past,
Through rearing waves that broke across our bow,
Abound for home, due south, and winter’s rest.
A grand adventure dreamt and sailed as one,
Reborn with life anew you soared and flew,
Before the winds across the sea with me –
Two birds no longer wounded, but made whole.

I love the rhythm and epic scale of blank verse, and have really enjoyed trying to capture the vivid imagery of seascapes and sailing, enhanced through its undulating pace. I hope it comes across.

If you enjoyed this poem, please consider hitting the like button or sharing it with anyone equally captivated by epic shores. Your support helps a lot as I work toward bringing this book into the world.

Then, some cosmic luck intervened and came to my rescue. I was given a small, 50-year-old deteriorating boat for free, by someone who had given up on sailing, annual maintenance and B(ring).O(ut).A(nother).T(housand) life.

Her name was Kismet, meaning destiny. It felt like the universe was telling me something.

I was, at the time, a DIY novice who couldn’t tell an angle grinder from a jigsaw nor an alternator from a starter motor. I was also starting to experience severe burnout. Nine times out of ten that’s a combo that leads to a rapid loss of money and boat within a year.

But somehow the opposite happened. It didn’t happen all at once, but slowly at first. A year into ownership I was beginning to learn new things, and solve problems with the view of having more comfort and safety out sailing. A very motivating cause and effect. And Kismet did need a lot of work. When I got her, the old diesel engine would only deign to start every two or three times, the batteries and electronics were questionable at best, and a fire hazard at worst, and years of accumulated paint and growth on the hull—and mould and damp inside—meant that she was… unpleasant to sail.

It’s a very overwhelming feeling realising that what’s wrong on the boat is everything. But she was solidly built, a very sturdy hull, spacious for her size, and a capable cruising boat. I felt she had potential. And she was free, so what’s the worst that could happen?

(read my previous post (Alone at Sea) about nearly losing my mast in the North Sea for an answer to that question)

So I started learning about diesel engines, checking parts and reading manuals, eventually taking it all apart and rebuilding it myself. The electrics all came out and I rewired the boat, new safe batteries, LED lights and general modern comforts. I bought new power tools, finally learning how useful (and fun) an angle grinder is.

The drama and details of spending a winter rebuilding an engine in a cold shed is a story for another post, but to my surprise I found that having this project to work on—learning new skills, working with my hands, and having clear ambitions and goals for the project—proved healing in and of itself. I’d spent so much time fretting and questioning what to do next as I delved deeper into burnout, that the healing qualities of grimy engine work came as a surprise.

A free boat isn’t really free; it came at the cost of aches and pains and many hours of grime, as well as parts and tools, but ultimately I have spent less than even if I’d gotten a cheap beater car (not that Kismet can take me to the supermarket for the weekly shop). And the boat maintenance and DIY skills (not to mention all the new tools) are still coming in handy on an almost daily basis. And Kismet is transformed.

Looking back it does seem like destiny. Kismet carried us around all of Scotland in 2025, through the Caledonian Canal and out west. We sailed with dolphins, basking sharks, puffins, and sea eagles; we crossed seas, slept under the aurora and witnessed some of the most incredible night skies of my life. And ultimately it led me here, and to writing my memoir, and to being healed of burnout.

So thank you Kismet, for saving my soul.

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Prologue

I am alone at sea in my small sailboat after leaving Edinburgh at first light, and am now somewhere east of St Andrews. I am in search of something, or perhaps trying to escape as I sail my little ship Kismet – a twenty-three-foot sloop – single-handed for the first time. I’m seeking adventures along the coast, heading north to see how far I can make it – an ambitious trip for so small a ship. The azure sky is filled with gannets, gracefully cruising in search of food, and in the water, puffins drift lazily, their colourful beaks reflected in the still surface. I’m trying to make my way to Stonehaven, a few hours further north, with tide and wind.

As I close my eyes and let the movement of the boat carry me, I sense the power of the elements that move me. I feel the ceaseless power of the tide that flows like a great oceanic river, carrying me north, and the tentative brush of wind, fickle and unpredictable. It is calm now, but these forces are like great, wilful spirits of the earth, and they are in charge of life at sea. If they so choose, there is no fighting, nor harnessing their inexorable power, one can just hope to endure.

But occasionally, like now, they let you in, allow you to coexist in their domain, and in a small sailboat borrow some of their power. And when tide and wind and waves all harmonise with your little ship there are moments like this: a union of pure magic. In this union is the truest form of peace that I know: it is when I become one with the rhythm of the sea, of the regular movement of the waves and tides, and when the gusts and lulls of the wind flow and merge and become an extension of my senses.

This feeling is what I am searching for as I keep sailing northward, bow pointed towards Orkney and Shetland. But unfortunately, the wind has just died and it’s drawing late into the afternoon. The sails are flapping gently in the occasional breeze. I go down below to make myself an early dinner in the light of the setting sun. I’m at peace in my little ship, enjoying the solitude, and the distance to land based life; enjoying being surrounded by sea and birds, far from it all. I turn the stove on and start preparing some pasta.

I’m eating down below when I sense our movement changing; the wind is finally picking up. It hums in the rigging as we start surging forward. I quickly finish the food and climb back out on deck to take control of the tiller. We are sailing! We are picking up speed and the bow is splitting the water into two waves, leaving a long wake that merges into the wavelets behind us.

The wind rapidly increases in the dusky evening light, and the rigging and sails are straining under its force. I’ll need to reduce sail before something breaks. But as I go to furl away my headsail, something is wrong: it’s completely jammed. A lump of fear grows in the pit of my stomach. I try again, but no matter how much I coax and pull, it won’t budge. I scramble up on deck and head to the bow, carefully balancing as I walk in the increasingly difficult conditions. I’m trying to get the sail mechanism free, yanking and twisting with increasing desperation and force, but nothing is helping. Then snap! A bolt breaks and the whole forestay, which is holding up the mast, comes off from the bow. Shit! Somehow the mast is still standing, but the forestay is swaying wildly, risking serious damage. My hands are shaking as adrenaline surges through me and I try to hold on to the swaying stay.

For a moment I look out behind me. The sky is caught in a vivid orange, as the setting sun blazes through the atmosphere, and the beauty of it stuns me. Then, the sail is whipped furiously by a strong gust, and I’m almost thrown over the side by the force of it. With perilous effort I wrestle the mass of canvas and lash it around the forestay. I tie it down to the bow rail so it doesn’t swing around and break the mast, and can finally sit down and take a few deep breaths.

What do I do now?

I’m paralysed, unable to think. I glance up and suddenly remember my new halyard, a rope running the length of the mast. Perfect! I free it and attach it to the bow. It’ll hold the mast in place for now. I walk back to the cockpit on shaky legs, and prepare to start the engine. It is a reluctant relic, an old corroded piece of metal that works unreliably. If it doesn’t start, I’ll have to call the coastguard for a rescue. I press down the starter button as if my life depends on it, and the engine turns impotently, chugging along, as the battery slowly drains. Ten seconds… twenty seconds… thirty.

Come on, please…

Then, by some miracle, it finally comes alive, its metallic beat a steady reassurance that I will be able to make it back home. I’m just past Arbroath after twelve hours of sailing out of Edinburgh, and all I can do is turn around and sail into the approaching night, defeated.

As darkness descends, I motor back towards home, with a broken ship and a broken spirit. This was meant to be my first serious sailing adventure single-handed, and I have already failed, on the very first day. As the sun goes down, so goes my last ray of comfort and hope. In the dark of night, alone on the North Sea in my little ship I suddenly feel so small and helpless, at the whim of the awesome powers of the increasing wind and waves as they toss me like a cork in a bathtub; a lonely little boat on a stormy sea.

I motor through the dark night, shivering, cold and exhausted from a lack of sleep, as I peer into the darkness, avoiding lobster pots, shallows and fishing vessels. I’m hallucinating shapes and creatures in the dark, just outside the edge of my vision. It feels like a fever dream; my brain losing track of reality as tiredness starts breaking the barrier of my mind and I fight to stay awake. The droning of the engine seems to consume reality as I blip in and out of consciousness, unsure of where I am and what is real.

In the early morning, after endless hours of fighting sleep, a small band of light finally appears on the horizon, and as it grows brighter it dispels some of the cold misery in my mind. Eventually the sun rises, and with its warming, reassuring presence some hope and energy returns. I’m still afloat, engine still running and the mast still stands.

As I approach Edinburgh twenty-four hours after leaving, the engine starts coughing and hacking, despite having a nearly full tank. She gives up her last sputtering cough and dies just as I pass the breakwater into the harbour. I only just manage to drift onto the pontoon and moor up again with the help of some friendly sailors that help catch my mooring lines. I immediately head down below and fall asleep, exhausted. A few hours later I return home, any hope of further sailing this season extinguished. Rigging broken, engine broken, my little ship barely functioning, my dream of a sailing adventure dashed by the capricious North Sea. I’m sorry, Kismet. We weren’t ready

In writing this memoir I initially had decided against a prologue. I wanted real-time continuity from page one until the end, allowing readers to be a part of the adventure the whole time. From me quitting my job and then fixing up my boat Kismet, until we set sail and circumnavigated Scotland, and then eventually returned, weatherworn and wiser for it.

But as I was editing after my first draft I realised the tone of the story is very different in part one, which deals with the burnout, quitting a job and working in a yard during cold winter nights to fix an engine and a broken boat. The rest of the story is about the sailing adventure: the waves and wind and wild; the drama and difficulties of sailing, as well as the beauty of it. So I thought I’d try writing a prologue of a short failed trip a year before the start of the main story in the memoir. The prologue sets a vivid scene and tone more similar to later in the book and hopefully brings readers in through the more immediate action. And I quite like it, I think it’s effective, and hopefully it works to draw readers in and give them more of an idea for what to expect from the whole memoir.

I would love to hear your thoughts around the pros and cons of prologues in both fiction and narrative non-fiction. Did this prologue draw you in and make you curious to read more? Let me know why or why not!

Please like and comment below if you enjoyed this first glimpse of my upcoming memoir, and subscribe for future posts.

New Beginnings

Hello and welcome to my Substack “Soulfaring”. A year ago I walked away from a career in biomedical research to rediscover who I am after an extended fight with burnout and depression. I felt my soul had withered away and I had lost myself. So I rebuilt an old sailboat I had been given for free (read about it here) and set sail around Scotland to spend time in nature and let myself heal. I thought of that journey as a sail to save my soul and this writing project is the continuation of my attempt to heal and rediscover who I am and what I want to do. Over the last year I’ve written a memoir about the journey I’ve been on. About the creeping debilitation of burnout, and lifelong feelings of having to prove myself to the world. In chapter one of my memoir I share the feeling:

Writing this memoir has been a transformative experience. In future posts I will share more about what that has been like, but it has made me remember how much I love writing and storytelling. I’ve realised I write to better understand myself and the world, and by sharing my own writing—the ideas that drive and shape it, the joy and difficulties in putting pen to paper—I want to connect with others to better understand my place in this world and to gain a richer experience in exploring it.

What You Will Find here at Soulfaring

This substack is a creative outlet for personal writing exploration. This is where I post glimpses and snippets of ongoing projects (currently my memoir, read the prologue) but also other things including poems, nature essays and short stories that I am working on for my own enjoyment. As I get closer to publishing I also want to share the failures and successes along the way to getting published.

Here is a recent meditative, lyrical essay on rivers:

Occasionally, I also probe my own writing process: explore how I think about and understand structure, prose, rhythm and storytelling as a whole. I am infinitely fascinated by the subtle and constant decisions that shape and mould the stories I write, and also the stories I enjoy reading.

Join the Crew

So if you love nature writing and are as interested as I am in the richness and the soul-healing that comes from being out in nature, please subscribe. I’ll invite you to breathe in the salty sea air, the rich mossy air of an ancient forest, or the sweet peat of a river, and bring you along on adventures in the wild.

I want this to be a sanctuary for everyone who loves nature and the written word. A space where we can collectively explore life, connection, mental health, and purpose through the lens of writing and stories. Where we can all get a sense of belonging as creatures of earth and water.

Please take a moment to read some of my other posts, see the sights, breathe the air, and share your own thoughts in the comments. I love to hear all the different perspectives on life from the people that stop by to read. Drop a hello below, let me know where in the world you are reading this, and where you find your own peace in nature.

Fair winds,

Alexander Gunnarsson

May 2026

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